


Ready for Warfare

by LadyLoquacity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ANGST I SAY, Angst, Drug Use, Post-The Sign of Three, The Sign of Three Spoilers, in an existential kind of way, poor sad relapsing sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLoquacity/pseuds/LadyLoquacity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little post Sign of Three angst, just because.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready for Warfare

It begins with an itch; small, almost completely insignificant, but an itch never the less. It is halfway up his left forearm, and completely in line with his index finger. He scratches it, absently, and thinks little more of it. It persists as he steps up the stairs two at a time and bangs through the door to 221b. There is no need to be quiet, Mrs Hudson is still at the wedding and John- Well. Mrs Hudson is still at the wedding. 

He shrugs himself out of the Belstaff, and it lands loudly on the coffee table, the scarf soon joining it. He is horrified to look down and see the suit and tails which he had almost completely forgotten he was wearing underneath; he pulls and tugs at the jacket, frantic, and once he is finally only wearing the trousers and shirt he discovers he is panting, clothes strewn about him as though thrown off his body. Whilst he is catching his breath, he scratches his arm through the stiff fabric of his shirt.

Tea.

Fill kettle, switch down, mug out. Nothing fancy, there is no point in using fancy crockery in Baker Street unless one has important business; clients, parents, evil masterminds. No. A white 'builders mug', he once heard John call it. He does not know why. He places it on the counter top and slopes about the room, trying to locate tea bags and milk amongst the Petri dishes and volatile liquids. He knows these are things he owns, but he cannot be bothered to put his mind to remembering where, so instead he opens cupboards at random and hopes for the best. 

Once it is made, he allows it to go cold, because that is what tea is mainly for when you are Sherlock Holmes. He has pulled the cufflinks out of his shirt sleeves, feeling their steady and undeniable weight in the palm of his hand for a few moments, idly rolling them between his fingers before allowing them to fall haphazardly on the floor of the living room, only a few inches away from the side table. He could have put them on the side table, of course, but what would be the point of that? He rolls his sleeves up and is acutely aware again of the itch, still where it was when he first noticed it, as though he hasn't scratched it at all. He lets out a sigh, cheeks puffed out and eyes rolled heavenward, as if scratching his arm is one effort too many, but as he scratches he does not feel the relief he expects. 

He pulls his arm up to inspect the area, but there is nothing, only a stubborn itch underneath the red marks left by his own nails. A small, stern voice in the back of his mind tells him to leave it alone, but he is completely unsure as to why. After all, Sherlock Holmes is not an idiot and when one has an itch, one must scratch it. 

And so he does.

As he slouches about the flat for the rest of the night, or is it two nights? Maybe three. He is not really counting, or sleeping. He may be sleeping, actually, come to think of it, but he can't be sure. Mugs of cold tea begin to clutter up the surfaces and he wonders, on some distant level which feels quite far away from him, where Mrs Hudson has got to. He scratches his arm almost continually, even when he may or may not be asleep. 

Still it itches. 

On the day which he thinks is possibly day four, he looks down and is surprised to see a spot of blood on his best new everyday dressing gown. Just one spot, right over his left knee, seeping into the beige fabric as though being sucked in. He watches it for a minute. It looks like slow motion, and he finds himself staring closely, eyes only a centimetre away from his kneecap. He wakes, two hours later with his forehead on his knee, a stiff neck, and a small line of dried blood between is forearm and the palm of his hand.

He has run out of mugs, and Mrs Hudson has apparently gone AWOL, so he is forced to wash one up. As he stands with his hands in the sink, he wonders for a moment if he has ever washed a dish in front of John before. He doesn't know why, but when he thinks of John, he is suddenly ashamed. It punches him from the inside, so that it feels suddenly and for no reason as though his stomach is attempting to escape through his skin. He stares into the distance until it passes, and when he becomes aware of his own body again, the water is running too hot over his hands and he swears loudly.

He continues to scratch. There is something under his skin, there must be. It is the only possible explanation. He attempts, in a more desperate moment, to jam his arm underneath his microscope, but it doesn't work. He cannot adjust his view well enough one handed, and then he thinks of what John would say if he were to walk in and see him, and that now-familiar shame begins to make its way up through his gut again, and suddenly he doesn't care any more. Suddenly it seems much, much more important to sit on the end of his bed for an hour and stare at his own feet.

He scratches in time to the song in his head. He does not know what it is but he is, apparently, incapable of deleting it. It  
rolls over his thoughts, and through his dreams in a constant barrage. _Pop_ music. What has John Watson done to him? The itch intensifies and he is scratching again. And again. And... Again. It feels as though he is digging trenches in his arm, ready for warfare. Battle. Defeat. He pretends he does not know what his body is asking him for, and instead gazes at the ceiling, at what would be the underside of John's bed if only his vision were x-ray. The words 'John's bed' do strange things to him, and instead of the usual waves of shame washing over his vital organs, he is suddenly nothing other than unbearably sad. It crushes his chest and makes him gasp aloud into the hush of the flat.

Day six, possibly. He stares intently at his arm for somewhere between 37 minutes and eight hours. It is begging him now, the open wound which is has scratched to a raw and bleeding mess is asking him on a moment to moment basis for the one thing which he knows will make it go away. He is petrified, but he does not know how to separate all the different fears he has in his life right now, and so instead he just stares fixedly at his arm and hopes that sooner or later it will just Fuck Off. 

But Sherlock Holmes is not an idiot, and when one has an itch, one must scratch it.  
He opts for his wedding tie, in the end. A little macabre, but somewhat fitting, he thinks, as he pulls it tight about his arm. He expects to take no pleasure in this, but as he flexes his fist one, two, three times, there is the thrill in his belly, a small fire in the pit of his stomach which says “Finally.” A laugh escapes his parted lips and he is surprised by it, it sounds too loud in the empty space, filled up now only with mouldy mugs and balled up paper. He looks about himself for a moment, and wonders how it is that he is here instead of there. Not that he knows where 'there' is, only that by definition, it is not here.

And then he falters. Just for a split second, his grip on the plunger slips and as he rights himself, he hears footsteps on the stairs. They are coming towards the door, and the shame comes crashing down about him once more. Externally now, so that there are tympani drums and great waves crashing and bellowing about him as he sits, silent and still, on the rug in the middle of the living room. 

He draws a breath and looks up amidst the chaos of his thoughts, and tries to think of something to explain this, anything. He is horrified to discover that the only thing he can think of is the truth. This realisation flaps about in his chest as though it is a living, breathing, _dying_ entity in itself. He opens his mouth, closes it, and watches as John steps through the living room door.

After all, Sherlock Holmes is not an idiot. When one has an itch, one must scratch it.


End file.
